The Nightmare on Christmas Eve
by GrimGrave
Summary: A bittersweet - perhaps more bitter than sweet - story of Tracer, Emily, and Widowmaker. Rated M for adult themes, NotSafeForWork or for kids. Merry Christmas everyone!


Disclaimer: Overwatch and all characters associated with it belong to Blizzard Entertainment. GrimGrave does not make money out of writing fiction.

 _A/N: Just a different take on the whole "Tracer has an actual girlfriend" thing with the setting being Christmas. Have a merry Christmas, everyone! Another Christmas/New year fic will be posted sometime soon, hopefully._

 _A/N#2: I have nothing against Emily. I just found the idea too good to pass up. I can always write something with Tracer and Emily another time~_

 _ **The Nightmare on Christmas Eve**_

Why was I doing this?

My heart beats faster beneath my breast and my heavy breathes become thin mist in the frigid air.

 _Why_ indeed; I asked myself that question every time and, instead of finding a satisfactory answer in the hopes that I can pass the blame on something other than myself, I continue to do what _she_ wants.

Despite the evening air being as cold as it is, sweat trickles down my skin, rolling past my heaving chest. It feels like I'm on fire, heat spreading across my face and pooling between my thighs.

As always, I don't come to a conclusion and instead let the woman in front of me – the woman who is currently rolling a finger over an exposed nipple, as she keeps me pinned to the wall in some darkened alley – do what she want.

"You struggle less and less each time we meet, _ma chérie,"_ she tells me, and I managed a defiant glare for a second or two before my eyes roll back into my head, talented fingers cupping wet heat, the contact being enough to send a spark of pleasure through my body that leaves my knees weak.

The woman – my sworn enemy – chuckles, like she always does. This is basically a pattern, a routine, a cycle that doesn't change or ends. I can't even recount how long this has been going on – this heart-wrenching, orgasm-bringing, addictive liaison – with the exception that I remember it being warmer outside when this began…

"Look at you," she then taunts. "Sodding my fingers before I even enter you." Her French accent is like sex to my ears, despite how much I try to tell myself that I loathe her bloody voice. "I always admired the way your other mouth is more honest, Lena."

I shiver. The way she says my name gives me chills.

She leans closer, hot breath against my reddened ear as she drop to a low, husky tone. "And honesty should be rewarded, wouldn't you agree?" She softly laughs and I shudder. "That is, if you want it. Just say the word."

Bloody hell…! I bite my lip. I hate this; hate the way the assassin is controlling me, hate the way I always end up powerless, hate the way I keep returning back for more.

My body aches, more so between my legs, and I wince when full, purple lips press against my throat and nip at the skin. The purplette has always been careful not to leave any marks, but this time it's different.

She trails kisses down my throat, past my collarbone, until she can take an erect nipple into her mouth. She bites down and I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to cover my moan-scream; while we're in a dark alley, if people were to hear something, they might walk over and see us – a woman, clad only in form-fitting pants that are pulled down to her knees and an open pilot-jacket, with a Frenchwoman pushing up against her.

Somehow, the thought made me wetter.

The assassin plays with my other nipple, twisting it for added effect, and a muffled moan tears through my throat. She keeps brushing against my sensitive bundle of nerves just enough to rile me up, but not enough to give me the edge I need to bloody cum!

I'm on the very edge, and she knows it. I need to beg – need to once again give in.

A hot tongue swirl around a now-sore bud and the purplette looks up at me with a smouldering look that has been the source of many jilling off sessions…Over time, I've come to the realization that fantasizing about the assassin…made me come faster.

Bugger me sideways, I wanted to cry.

"Well?" she asks, still groping malleable flesh. "Do you want it or not, _Mon amour_?"

My heart is racing. An image flashes before my mind's eye; a woman with ginger hair smiles at me, and my heart feels like it's going to burst into million pieces.

 _Emily…_

I want this to stop. I want to wake up from this nightmare and leave it behind me.

And yet, as my body grows hotter and I focus entirely on those commanding ochre eyes, the image is wiped clean from my mind and I hear myself saying;

"Please…" That needy, throaty voice belongs to me, regrettably. "Please, Amelié…I need a good shagging!"

The laughs, the sound airy and mocking at the same time before she rise up and crash her lips against mine, fingers drawing circles around my clit. It's deep, forceful, and I let out a muffled scream against her as my feminine channel – needy as it was – finally gets filled with three of the sniper's fingers.

They piston in and out mercilessly and I truly feel like I'm burning up! I do the only thing I can do: clinging onto the Frenchwoman, one leg around her waist, as she plunger deep into wet heat.

She pulls back from me with that seductive smirk of hers, leaving my bruised. It's just like I remember it to be; tangy and addictive. I can taste copper in my mouth and I would've frowned had I not been fucked silly by the woman I hated the most.

…Or did I? I kept coming back to her for a reason after all.

Just then she lets out a low, husky laugh and buried four fingers deep inside my cunt, up to the second knuckle, and curl against my inner walls just _so_. Before I can scream, she kisses me again, and I see stars as my pleasure receptors are repeatedly assaulted as I ride out the wave.

 **x.x.x**

I hug my aviator jacket tighter around me. I managed to blink back to my apartment and I hesitate in front of the door.

 _/ "I will see you again, Mon amour." I lazily watched her from the snow-covered ground, clad in a black coat and pants, as she left./_

I fumble to get the key into the keyhole, slowly unlocking the door. I pray that I will come home to a sleeping redhead so I don't have to face her, perhaps opting to sleep on the couch with a bad excuse in the morning

Instead, I'm greeted by hazel pools and a smile that only makes this worse.

"I was wondering where you were," she tells me and pulls me in for a hug. "Welcome home, darling."

My heart sinks. "I'm home, love."

She steps away, her expression serious. "Your lip is bleeding! What happened?!"

I force a smile. "Nothing, love! I took down a thug while I was out, no biggie!"

She sighs. "You always try to do so much…But I'm glad you're home." She pulls me into another hug and I feel my heart shattering as I picture a certain sniper in Emily's place. "But that's what I love about you, Lena. I love you."

The image of the assassin flashes before my mind. God, why does she torment me, still? I love **Emily –** my girlfriend. I need to break this – whatever it is – off with the purplette.

 _´I love Emily, I love Emily, I love Emily,´_ I keep telling myself. That's right, my heart belongs to this beautiful redhead. Everything is going to be fine. "I love you too…"

 **"Amelié."**


End file.
